Something in the sounds of this empty house
speak of things other than solitude and serenity:

the sound of my boot heels
echoing down the hardwood hallway
past the door of the kitchen
where yesterday’s dishes stack on the counter,

the sound of the furnace
kicking on during the night
while frost settles hard and white on the roof,

the sound of the dryer
tumbling a load of tee shirts
and the one white dress shirt
that will be wrinkled again
when I pull it from the jumbled pile
in the morning.

Gone are the sounds of her voice,
audible but not understandable
when I am in the other room,

the sounds of cooking
coming from the stove,
the stirring of beans and onions,
of potatoes at a roiling boil
on the back burner,

the snoring of the dog
curled into the corner of the couch.

At the time of my lying down for the night,
I call her to know that she is safe
back at our other home,
to know that I am not alone,
to know that devotion endures all things,
to feel the sound of her voice
soothing the jagged edges
of this day’s small fragments.

This, too, is love,
a different way of being together.

H. Arnett
11/23/15